Forever Yours
by Bex the Hat
Summary: If Tira had chosen to raise Pyrrha as her own instead of leaving her to the life of a nomad, only to be called upon when the right time arose, how would their relationship stand?
1. Forever Yours

Because new game releases give me inspiration to do these things…

Of course this is based on Soul Calibur V, and a few AU concepts that BlackDragonKing and I discussed. Namely, instead of Tira kidnapping Pyrrah then leaving her to live the life of a nomad, she instead kept the girl with her and raised her as her own. There's no strict character point-of-view here or a strictly linear timelime, just a stream of consciousness running from them both into the muddle that is now presented. Huzzah!

Cue Nightwish play list and air-guitaring…

* * *

><p>She had learned quickly to remove the clawed gauntlets whilst stroking the child's hair; claws and signs of affection did not mix, it seemed - not without cries of pain and the awkward moment of realisation having been rendered helpless and without the use of one's hands by golden strands.<p>

They both had things to learn, apparently.

For one, it was restraint. You could not bash the child's head off of the castle wall for disobedience without fear of harming them indefinitely. That was a lesson the servant had learnt quickly; the effort exempted in capturing merely one of the Alexandra children was enough to keep her methods of punishment in check. If she accidentally killed the girl, then getting the replacement of her younger brother, especially with the family of the children on high alert, would mean certain danger. She could not afford to fail now; not after rebelling against Nightmare's will in order to serve the higher power of Soul Edge.

For the other, the lesson was obedience. Her guardian was not the most timid of creatures, nor kind. She was not implying that her captor could not show kindness, just merely when it suited the woman to do so. The wrath of the clawed girl with the sickly pale complexion was enough for her to comply quickly; just glancing at the scars left by gauntlets and rubbing at the swollen flesh on the back of her head were all the reminders the child needed to obey the demon that had stolen her from her family, or what little she remembered of them.

Tira had realised not long after retrieving her new ward that she could not just lock her up like a princess in a tower. No, the child was too young to strive that way. To achieve the former- assassin's goals, _their_ goal, ultimately. Pyrrah, Pyrrah, Py-rrah. She had tested the name on her lips. It would have to do, the child was still young enough to forget aspects of her lineage, but not her given name. Pity. Tira had never really owned anything in order to warrant it a name, even the circular steel she adored had been named by another before receiving it; perhaps one day.

Time had passed, so much time. By the time the child's age became double digits, Pyrrah was at the edge, so close to giving up hope of ever finding her real family. They had never come for her. Ever. She had scoured the bridges and river banks of Ostreinsburg castle, rode the raft that followed the current of its moat; waiting for a sign that her Mother was coming.

These thoughts clouded her mind, a sad smile in place, whilst making her rounds of the castle's waterway, sitting on the raft. She thought, in a moment of delirium, she had seen a glimmer of white silk up ahead. Her Mother was always said to wear white, correct? That's what Tira had stated once in one of her many berating rants towards Pyrrah's want of escape - to return home. Perhaps her Mother had passed that way and torn a piece of her garment? Alas, the mark of white in her vision turned out to be nothing but a wandering bird sitting upon one of the branches that hung over the dark water. The despair that struck Pyrrah, the emotion that had been building in her heart far too long, meant she did not notice in her grief the crows attacking the defenceless, white creature for no other purpose than being in their territory. The white feathers were swept away by the current of the water that surrounded the castle.

"They _abandoned _me."

There was a finality in her tone that shattered her denial. Tira, for years, had been stating the exact same words. Finally, the two mirrored one another. Pyrrah's latest epiphany shifted the perspective towards her captor. She had been so naïve in her rejection of the older girl that had taken her in and cared for her, whilst there was no hair nor breath of her so called _loving_ family.

From there on out, Pyrrah decided to stop rejecting Tira and her ways, no matter how much they scared her. It could not be worse than being alone.

The older girl in the passing of time had changed much herself; growing more unstable and dangerous with each new shard of the malicious sword collected. For reasons Pyrrah herself could not decipher, her guardian's complexion had grown paler and paler; she wondered if the older girl was ill. The Greek child would never know the answer nor extent of the truth behind her ponderings. The hair that had once matched the crows that followed her captor faithfully now was as white as the driven snow. If she herself had not watched it slowly lose its pigment naturally over time, she would have thought Tira had dyed it somehow - she was prone to experimenting with such things - the purple streaks lacing the white hair a testimony to this. She had once asked Tira to dye her hair a different colour, a simply curiosity, resulting in the girl flying into a rage and having to hide until the former-assassin stopped destroying the furniture. Pyrrah's punishment, enacted several hours later, was to repair said furniture. The scantily clad woman in question watched her as she did so, sitting curled up on the throne where Nightmare resided when he used to dwell in the current home of the two females; the most unpredictable of the two brewing in an unexplainable anger, muttering darkly about names Pyrrah could no longer recall.

It was this visage reflecting in the water that snapped Pyrrah out of her reverie. The timid girl glanced up, too far gone to bother wiping the tears that stained her face, nor the surprise in her features at not noticing that the demonic looking girl had stopped the raft in its movements. The older of the two having dragged the raft a little onto the muddy edge in order to keep the other female from using the wooden creation as a means to avoid interaction. In a blink of an eye, with a heeled boot still holding the raft in place, her guardian's sneering disposition flipped entirely into concern, albeit appearing slightly confused. Pyrrah could not help but recall the query in mind regarding her guardian's age; she looked as if a day had not passed since the day the servant of Soul Edge had sneaked into her original home and stolen her in the dead of night. The only time she looked remotely near her age, or the age Pyrrah supposed she would be, was when the older girl was upset herself, or angry, which was quite often - and it was only shown in her eyes, the deep amethyst shade revealing the extent to which her captor was steeped in the taint of the Master she served. When her guardian was happy however, and happy in the most manic, malicious sense, she appeared as carefree as a child. Pyrrah liked that side of her caretaker. She liked to play hide and seek. Pyrrah always lost, unfortunately. As Pyrrah daydreamed, Tira tried to unravel her confusion in regards to the tears that marred the normally very pretty, _too pretty_, one of the voices would say, _we have to break it, _face of her hostage. For the captor of the young girl had not done anything that day to upset nor harm her. Was it possible someone else did? Tira felt an odd anger bubble up inside her at the mere thought of someone other than her hurting her charge.

Thus was the cause of their current predicament.

For all at once, at the feeling of a clawed hand resting lightly upon her shoulder, Pyrrah had broken down. Tira could do nothing else but awkwardly hold the younger girl as she sobbed uncontrollably into her blonde spoke of her realisation, apologising profusely for her rebellion of her younger years. For once, the witch that had torn apart the very girl who she held's family, was silent. _She _had been the one to cause this despair. A part of her acknowledged this. A small part. Perhaps in some kind of remorse, Tira had led the girl, hand in hers, into the castle and tucked her into the makeshift bed, covering her in the blanket and furs that had once sat in a child, for despite everything, that was what she was, cried herself to sleep. Tira had been silent the entire time, confusing her ward; however, she held the girl tightly in her clawed grip as if unwilling to let the child go, in light of this, the girl felt comforted for the first time in years, for her white-haired captor did not show many signs of affection; the child revelled in the moment knowing that such was never likely to happen again.

The lit fireplace crackled, warming the girl wrapped in furs further and providing a source of heat for the other who was dressed in very little to begin with. Tira had removed her clawed gauntlets eventually, deeming them unnecessary for the current moment and fed up of having to wrestle her hands free, and held the girl in her small, delicate hands - unfitting for her choice of trade.

When they both awoke the next morning, the fire having gone out of its own accord, their perspective of one another had been changed. For Pyrrah, a pillar of trust and care had been formed in her mind in the image of Tira, spurning the blonde to do whatever her guardian asked of her; unknowing of the horrors the sickly pale girl had planned.

However, for Tira, this shift in relation with her hostage had sparked a much darker implication. Tira had never had anything of her own, to love nor destroy wholeheartedly, now she did; no one, absolutely _no one_ was going to take that from her.

May it be jealousy on the demon's part or some twisted maternal instinct, Tira had no regrets as she struck down the golden haired warrior of the Gods some time later. Having knocked the sword and shield from the white-clothed woman, the pale girl straddled her waist and held the woman's hands in a painful, clawed grip; all the grins and jollity that had constructed the girl's visage during the fight were gone, all was left was a stoic expression, a lighting spark flash of sanity seemed to appear in the girl's eyes before disappearing, needing to succeed at the task at hand. As the demon's painted lips neared the older woman's, the girl couldn't help herself as she whispered darkly before kissing the woman softly; sapping away her soul in the process. Tira had once mentioned to the former Nightmare that she hoped Sophitia's soul tasted like strawberries, he had scoffed in amusement at her mutterings; upon remembering such a moment, Tira smirked into the kiss, she would have to tell Nightmare when she encountered him again that it was more of a raspberry taste. Unbeknownst to Tira amongst her reminiscing, the Greek woman's eyes widened at both the witch's comment and her life slowly draining away from her, struggling in vain.

The warrior of the Gods had not been granted a merciful death, with only a tiny fraction of her soul left, she was left to die slowly, painfully. Only having enough energy to replay the words of her daughter's captor over and over inside her mind as her last breath slipped away from her.

"She's _my_ daughter now, and I'm her Mother. You'll _never_ take her away from me.~


	2. Augen Auf: Hide and Seek

_A collaboration between Derajdragonlord and I; because we get bored._

_Normal Font: Derajdragonlord  
>Italics: Myself. <em>

_Reviews are welcome, for they make us happy pandas. :3_

* * *

><p><em> The years had passed in the form of an unspoken truce. Unspoken in the sense of, speak of this matter again and I'll remove each fingernail one by one, which, in Tira's opinion, was pretty fair. After all, out of the kindness of her own heart, she had raised the girl from screaming child to the teenager she now was. All of the five feet and five inches. Tira felt smaller and smaller by each passing day. Damn.<em>

_Thinking of her charge made the white-haired girl smile, even if only slightly. In normal circumstances, perhaps the murderer of the child's Mother would feel remorse, not pride nor a maternal instinct for turning the girl into an orphan. These thoughts were buried in the marshy recesses of her memory; the voices were always louder anyhow - it was much easier to let them take the lead in directing her moral compass._

_This moment of content, when the clashing personas inside her mind were at their most quiet, was destroyed by the questioning of the blonde teenager's whereabouts. It was not that Tira was possessive or controlling; such assumptions were absurd in her reflection of her own personality. The former assassin just liked to know that her charge was safe, and away from others and their corrupting influence. Yes. That was how Mothers looked after their children. The Greek warrior, whose soul still left a bittersweet taste on her painted lips, had continually stated such aspects of Motherhood. Tira was just taking her advice on how to be a good Mother - something the blonde woman in soft, white silk had never understood, having left the small child vulnerable to those with evil intent._

_Tira clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth at this thought. In her mind, she had done Pyrrha a favour, committed a sacrifice if you will - Tira no longer had Sophitia to antagonise and exist as a source of entertainment - all for the protection of her adopted daughter. By removing the cause of the problem, Tira had saved her child from further heartbreak. That was all there was to it._

_With heeled boots clicking against the stone floor, Tira sauntered off in search of Pyrrha, her hips swaying._

When a mouse sits before a predator, there is often a moment where it dwells in such complete terror that it wants to run far away while remaining exactly where it is. Years of survival instincts scream to flee, and yet the same terror that should inspire flight instead holds the prey still.

Pyrrha envied the hapless mouse; terminal as it was, their moment of frozen, mad terror was only a moment. Hers had lasted a lifetime.

They'd found her wandering by herself, this little family with their warm little cottage. Her mother bird seemed to think it was good to let her wander away from the castle from time to time; seeing the land around her let Pyrrha have some time away from home so she would appreciate the castle's safety more, and tracking her down and killing everyone who saw her gave her mother something to do with the long, uneventful days she spent waiting for Pyrrha to be ready.

Please, come inside, they'd said. It's too cold a day to be out on the road. Are you alone, they'd asked? Are you lost?

"No. I live nearby, with my mother. She'll come to find me soon." That was always the answer, the only one she had it in her to give.

She could scream out loud as she did in her head. _Run away, please, you're all going to die when she comes for me! Don't come near me, or she'll kill you!_

But nobody believed such things. The last ones she'd warned had thought her mad, believed she was threatening them. Her mother had laughed to find Pyrrha covered in blood and crying when she found her that day. Pyrrha desperately wished there was a way to please her mother without suffering nightmares for months afterwards.

She ought to drive people away from her, or deny her mother and go so far away she wouldn't be found by anybody. Then no one would be hurt.

But...then she'd be alone.

And so Pyrrha found herself being a good girl again, eating quietly with a family of corpses that didn't yet know they were dead. She knew her mother would be along soon to bring her home.

_Tira stood at the beginnings of small cottages and workshops that signalled a village. She confidently walked past these sights of normality with a swagger and a smile plastered, yes, like one material forced upon another, upon her face; for it seemed too false and practiced to even be remotely considered genuine joy or content. The older girl, woman…for she was in her thirties without looking a day over twenty, could not even fathom how to express true emotions without switching to and fro from the extremes of happiness and depression. One cannot express what they have never truly felt nor understood. These thoughts eluded her as she walked, head bopping to a beat unknown to anyone but herself, searching for her wandering child; it was time to return home._

_The white haired demon paused, breathing deeply whilst closing her eyes; like one taking in the beauty of a glorious new day at the dawn. The irony was not lost on her for the stance she took whilst searching for Soul Edge's taint and the future that awaited the poor souls her daughter had found. It was a whisper, a whisp of purple smoke in her mind's eye that formed a trail. A darker smile than the one before formed; Pyrrah could not hide her malfestation from the loyal servant of the cursed sword._

_It took several minutes, the village being little more than a few homes and small, family-run stores, but the woman dressed haphazardly in strips of leather and cloth came within sight of a vision of family bliss. Her baby bird was so good at picking the best souls. Those who denied their own mortality by bonding with others so intimately that they forgot about their timely end. Pyrrah was so clever to pick these kinds of people; they were doing society a service._

_Gladly._

_A reminder of human mortality came with an echo of a clawed gauntlet tapping on the wooden door of the cosy cottage._

_Tap, tap, tap_.

That simple noise barely registered to the occupants of the house, but to Pyrrha it was worse than the sound of an axe being sharpened. Her mother was a being of sharp points and cutting edges, and Pyrrha had memorized the sounds of her mother sharpening herself on the unsuspecting world.

"The door!" The family's child said, and panic gripped Pyrrha's heart as the little girl went over to answer the door, her braids bobbing with each step. She knocked her bowl to the floor in her haste to stop her.

"No, don't!" She said sharply, surprising her hosts. Under their uncomprehending gaze, she withered.

"It's...my mother. She's here to take me home." She murmured, feeling like a murderer. They didn't understand; how could they? Pyrrha knew she was poison to human beings, but she was too weak to keep away from them where she belonged.

They'd been kind to her for no reason. Their little girl had called her "big sister" and wanted her to stay in her room. They were good people. And they were going to die for it.

Her mother had joined a good family once. One of their real children had called her "sister", too. And whenever a child died, Pyrrha's mother often told her the story of how that little family had ended.

She had a knife in her belt; her mother wouldn't let her leave her room without something she could kill with. She could threaten the family to make them run, try to escape and draw her mother away from them...

But Pyrrha went to the door to let her mother in. She'd come into this house knowing she was death to humans, and she could no more save this family than she could pull the moon from the sky. She opened the door, one arm around the little girl as she did so; after poisoning the child to death, the least she could do was stay with her in her last moments...

The door opened, and Pyrrha stared into the cheerful purple eyes of the only person in the world immune to her fatal presence. This was their favourite game, hide and seek.

She'd just lost. She _always_ lost.

"H-Hello, Mother..."

_Tira's grin never faltered as she embraced the blonde girl who was beginning to tower above her slight frame. She learned her head, pigtails swaying to the side, on the young girl's shoulder, lips hovering above the ear she was planning to pierce at one point - a rite of passage into the teenage realm and the correlation between pain and beauty that her daughter would soon be aware of - whispering, "I'm __**so**__ proud of you." Clawed gauntlets twirling a piece of golden blonde hair around the point of its index finger._

_"Did you miss me?" The older girl asked, part mock concern, the other a genuine enquiry._

Pyrrha knew her mother loved her; had known it for years, even when it became clear she was too dangerous for anyone else to love. But knowing she was pleased wasn't the same thing as knowing she still loved Pyrrha; Pyrrha had disappointed her mother too many times to be ignorant of that.

In some ways, it was the strange swoop of joy in her stomach to see how proud her mother was each time she lost at hide-and-seek that made Pyrrha feel most like a murderer. She'd killed so many people just by being near them, and it made her mother so happy. Would she still be inviting people to kill themselves by taking her in if she knew any other way to make Tira proud?

But she couldn't help it; even with the fear and resigned sorrow in her eyes, Pyrrha smiled with relief to see her mother had come for her again, and that she wasn't angry. She nodded mutely, releasing the little girl to embrace her mother; reunion was the best time for such displays, certainly the safest.

"These three let me stay with them while I waited for you." She whispered, her wrist twitching as though she'd slit the family's throats herself with each word. Now her mother knew that the whole family was right here in their reach, and nobody would enter unexpectedly. Now Pyrrha would remember how much to add to the exact count of people she'd murdered for being kind to her.

One hundred. She was fifteen as of a week ago, and these three souls would finally bring the tally to three numbers. Pyrrha watched the little family, clearly surprised by Tira's appearance but not knowing to be scared.

_Ninety-eight, ninety-nine..._she looked sadly at the little girl.

_One hundred_.

"Can we go home, mother?" She whispered, knowing full well what was about to happen.

_A stroke of hair, a soft kiss on the cheek._

_"Of course," the white haired witch replied. One hand removed itself from around the taller girl's shoulders to move down to her belt, grabbing the dagger she knew she had hidden there, before slipping it into the blonde's hand._

_"Make Mama happy. It'd just make me so happy…you know it would." Calm, complimenting whispers. Tira knew how to wind Pyrrha around her clawed finger._

_Purple eyes glanced at the observing family, seemingly still unaware at the passing of a weapon that had transpired; oblivious to the malicious intent of the older female._

_Tira recalled her own initiation. Naturally, in her line of work, it had been at a much younger age than Pyrrah was now. Alas, she blamed the sheltered upbringing of the girl's previous life. Tira was now making up for lost time, appearing unaware of the own torment the act of killing her own Mother figure, her mentor, had caused her; it, like everything else, was swamped in crimson and the screams for further bloodshed that echoed within her mind._

_Pyrrha joining her in such acts would, and she meant it, make her so happy. She would lead her daughter by the hand and teach her how waltz without slipping on the pools of dark red that stained in the wooden floor. Tira was so good at thinking of ways to bond with her daughter that she surprised herself; Sophitia would never have thought of such an amazing initiation into young adulthood. Ultimately, that was why Tira considered herself such a better Mother than the now deceased blonde._

_She let herself come away from the loving embrace of her daugher, hands still on her shoulders as a sign of reassurance. A smirk found its way onto her visage, highlighting the beauty mark upon the apple of her right cheek._

_"Mama bird just loves her baby so much; you want to make her happy, right? If you do this, we can go shopping for new clothes. Pyrrha would like a new dress, right? Right?" Tira's eyes were slightly pleading behind their forced sparkle of joy; oh, she hoped her daughter would not reject this chance to be closer to her Mother._

_Oh, how she hoped…_

Pyrrha's heart sank as she was given the knife. It would be her hands that snuffed out these lives, then. Her mother wouldn't keep cleaning up after her; she was getting too big for that.

The idea that she could save these people by stabbing Tira right now didn't even exist in Pyrrha's world; her mother was the only real person there had ever been. The only one that was immune to dying in her presence.

The only one that knew she was evil, but loved her anyway. Life without Tira did not bear considering. Pyrrha nodded, kissing her mother on the cheek. This was what had to be. For an evil thing like her to be happy, people had to die. She was her mother's daughter, and that meant her joy could only come amidst bloodshed.

"Yes, mama." She murmured. "I'll make you happy."

The father had come closer to them to take his daughter further away from the strange, pale woman. Pyrrha's knife took him in the chest, making him jerk back in surprise as she cut his throat open. He fell to the floor, helpless to do anything but bleed out. Pyrrha's clothes and face were spattered with innocent blood as she turned towards the mother and child.

"I'm sorry." She murmured.

The woman screamed, and her expression of horror and betrayal burned itself into Pyrrha's mind as the sharp little knife danced in and out of her belly; Pyrrha vaguely realized the woman was trying to get to her frozen daughter to protect her, but all her movement earned her was a fatal gash along her stomach. Rather than leaving her to die slowly, Pyrrha knelt down and finished the woman with one more little cut.

That left her alone with the little girl, staring at the child that had trusted her immediately while covered in her parents' blood. She didn't seem to understand what had happened; it seemed strange to Pyrrha that a girl of five hadn't seen death yet. Pyrrha's first memories were of pain and corpses; without her mother's clawed embrace, there was nothing else in her earliest days.

"W-Why?" The little girl asked, shaking. Pyrrha saw her tears, but found she could not conjure a single one of her own; she'd known she was murdering this girl the moment she'd looked at her, and now she was simply following through. Instead, Pyrrha smiled sadly, remembering the lesson Mother had let her wander in order to learn.

"Because Mother and I aren't like you. We're real people." She said quietly, raising her knife. "We can only exist with humans when they die."

She killed the girl almost instantly; Pyrrha was fairly sure the child did not have time to notice she was dead before her small form slumped to the ground. Pyrrha looked at her knife hand, soaked with the girl's blood, and to her it seemed a grotesque, twisted claw. And yet...she still couldn't cry. So she tried to smile, like her mother did, and turned slowly to the quietly watching assassin. In the dim light, she seemed almost demonic, covered with spatters of human blood that seeped into her clothes and darkened the white cloth to almost black.

"I've killed a hundred people now, mama." She said quietly, a weak desperation for Tira's comfort in her voice. "Have I...been good?"

_To say Tira was ecstatic would be an understatement._

_With a grace that allowed her to creep into the homes of others and steal their children from under their sleeping watch, Tira launched herself upon the blonde girl. If this is what humans called happiness, then Tira could grow addicted to the feeling. Tira could not care if her embrace crushed a few ribs of Pyrrha's, or if the blood stains were transferring from white to green; all the assassin could do was smile as she dragged her daughter down to the floor by an inhuman strength that she no longer noticed._

_The small rivulets of water staining her face successfully smudged her make-up. Tira could not have cared less at that moment. "Look, Look," she laughed, pointing at her own face, "Look at how happy you've made me, __**us**__."_

_The demonic looking girl's shoulders shook as she sobbed from overwhelming joy. The blood pouring out from the child stalked its way to their bonding moment. It was fitting._

_The blonde girl was silent, it was understandable, she would grow out of it soon. Once the tears subsided, Tira stood and hoisted the girl up before leading her in a waltz amongst the corpses, showing her the proper steps - the assassin kept count. Had it not been for the scenery, one would think it was simply a Mother teaching her daughter how to dance in the way of the courts. However, things were never that simple in the world Tira had dragged Pyrrha, kicking and screaming, into._

_Eventually, the silence of the girl made Tira falter in her steps. She placed a clawed index finger and thumb under the chin of the taller girl and pulled her face down to greet purple eyes marred in smudged, dark make-up._

_"What troubles you so? Isn't the love of your Mother enough? Speak to me, __**now**__." Tira's voice was laced with a growl, as if she should have fangs instead of regular incisors._

Her mother had laughed and laughed taking her home the day Pyrrha had killed men by herself, but this was something else entirely. Pyrrha, who had learned not to ever try hugging her mother when she wasn't very happy with her, was caught in a crushing, joyful hug and borne to the floor.

Her mother laughed; her mother cried. They danced around the silent, bloodstained house in a display of wild, energetic joy Pyrrha had rarely seen from her mother before.

Pyrrha gave in to the whirlwind of her mother's turbulent emotions; she was loved. She'd made her mother very, very happy. That was all she needed to be happy.

She told herself this so many times it started to become true, and she tried to lose herself in Tira's laughter; to let her mother's affection drown out the cries of all the people she'd sent to their deaths.

But her silence was a mistake. It brought out the other face her mother kept inside, the one that loved Pyrrha but was only rarely pleased with her.

Strangely, though she'd killed a whole family with dry eyes, her mother's rebuke made Pyrrha burst into tears; no, mother couldn't be angry at her now...not after she'd been so good...despite fearing another rebuke, Pyrrha suddenly held her mother tightly, burying her face in the older woman's shoulder.

"Don't ever leave me alone again, mother. Please...I don't want to be by myself anymore!" She sobbed.

The love of her mother not being enough? No, that was the only thing Pyrrha was sure existed in her wretched life. Other people were shadows and dust in her mind, things that withered and died when she came near. Without Tira, she had nothing.

Pyrrha remembered there had been a long time in her youth when she'd been disobedient and difficult. She hadn't wanted to be near her mother; she'd wanted to go away from her, to someone else, something she couldn't even remember well enough to describe now. How many times had she hurt her mother trying to distance herself, or find somewhere else to live?

How many times had Tira forgiven her for trying to leave? Forgiven her for being death to others? Loved her even when it became clear she was evil?

Pyrrha had grown into an adult who could kill without her mother's aid, and yet she found herself needing her mother more than she'd ever needed her as a child. No amount of fury would have convinced the young blonde to release her guardian as she continued to cry.

"I don't need anyone but you..." She whispered. "I don't want to wander off any more, mother. I need to be with you."

_The blonde's fear of being alone triggered an emotion within the assassin that she could not decipher. Normal human beings would perhaps call it empathy. One voice had her grab a mass of the blonde hair in her clawed grip as the other willingly clung to her, __**tear it out. Show her the price of her error.**_

_The white-haired demon could only glare at the golden strands that angered her in her darker moods. It only served to remind her of the woman who had foiled so many of her Master's schemes. Tira knew deep down that she would most likely end up harming the girl in a fit of rage as her likeness developed into that of her true Mother. A sliver of sanity that still existed within her mind knew that she was anything but good for the welfare of the teenager. It, along with most thoughts regarding selflessness, was drowned and sunk to the bottom of the stormy sea that were her thoughts._

_Fortunately for the sobbing teenager, the other voice broke through. Tira's head snapping to the side as if someone had slapped her. The reaction was immediate. The hand's grip became softer as the shorter female returned the embrace._

_"I'd never __**abandon**__ you. No, no. She told me to hurt you, but no. Not this time…" came the whisper, attempting to calm the girl down as a demonic voice that only she could hear screamed for the teenager's blood as retribution for her disrespect. The assassin knew it would be best not to sleep that night once this whole affair was done with; let alone the growling voice screaming traitor to the other took its lead and harmed the blonde to the point of no return. No, she could not be left alone again. Not after her Master left her with only a feeling of warmth and his whisp of a flame-tinged aura to remember him by._

_Never again._

Pyrrha had feared her response might anger her mother, had been tensing in spite of herself for the shift in her guardian's mercurial temperament. But the clawed grip on her hair slowly softened, and Pyrrha's sobs quieted slowly as her mother embraced her and whispered all she had needed to hear.

Tira wouldn't abandon her. She'd never be alone as long as they stayed together. In her wretchedness, Pyrrha felt the knowledge that she would not need to leave Tira's side again like the sun shining out of the darkness.

No matter what the angry voice within her mother did later, no matter how many insubstantial people died around them, Pyrrha resolved then and there to never stray from her mother again.

Though her tears were drying, Pyrrha's voice was so faint only Tira could hear it as the girl clung to her like a drowning man to a rock.

"I love you, Mama...I'll make you proud."

_"I'm glad, so glad." I think I need you too. Words left unsaid._

_Tira took the girl's small hands in hers, "Come, let us go home."_

_The blonde would never know the plans the snowy-haired woman had in store for her remaining family, if she even recalled them in the recesses of her memory that only struck in the haze between awake and dreaming. As far as Tira was concerned, they were a threat; a looming evil ready to destroy the only thing she had left to cling to._

_Subsequently, they would die by her hands_


	3. Song of Myself

[As Derajdragonlord and I take turns in hitting each other with the metaphorical motivation stick, the following does prove that violence is the answer to most problems with writers' block. Otherwise, tea.]

With the announcement of the Soul Calibur V light novels, and the loose translation of the happenings within one of them, there goes the theory that Tira killed Sophitia if the translation is anything to go by; and the justification of Patrokolos just _assuming_ that the cute psycho murdered his Mother. Sure, she's still guilty of kidnapping his sister, but hey, who's counting? This is just to clarify the beginnings of this chapter which clash with the ending of the first; part of me is irked by this due to a chapter needing edited a little, the other is going 'TiraxSophitia can totally be justified. Mmmm.' If it is wrong, then I don't want to be right. ~

So I'm going to take liberty with the limited translation and have some fun with it, keeping the story based upon the AU storyline Derajdragonlord and I are Rping by. :3.

[There's also not much of Pyrrha...oops.]

* * *

><p>The world was conspiring against her. Fact.<p>

Such was one of the many conclusions that the loyal servant of Soul Edge had come to whilst in the throes of the dark depression that inhabited half of her very being. She swore, "_you know you're being ridiculous, Glooms_," that the Mother of her current problem had lost to those malfested on purpose in order to lumber her with a useless, clumsy, snivelling, whiny - "_aren't we being a bit dramatic here with the adjectives?" _interrupted the chipper voice of the other inhabitant of the assassin's mind.

"…child," Tira finished the sentence out loud, spiteful towards her Other.

Taking the silence of her co-inhabitant as a sign to carry on with the detailing of her theory as to how they ended up with their wings clipped and playing Mother, she snorted with a stifled laugh at the thought, to a child that should have died in the arms of her Mother so very long ago.

**The first fact:** Sophitia went and died on her, in quite a pathetic manner, if anyone were to ask Tira of the events that transpired that day; for what fool would give their life to save another? As stated, pathetic. However, what happened in the woman's dying moments was what irked the malfested girl still.

**Fact two**: of all the dying wishes in the history of the delirium that transpires upon approaching death (the servant herself knew that one from personal experience), the blonde had to go and ask her, _her_, the one responsible for the majority of the tragedies that had struck the Alexandra's, to take care of the child upon her passing. If Tira had the chance to return to that place in time, she knew what she would do: kick that idiot of another half into the background of her mind, laugh in Sophitia's face before telling the dying woman of the grisly fate that awaited her daughter, all whilst stroking her golden hair between claws of steel as she took small moments to lick the blood from the woman's face like a kitten would drink milk. She would take great joy in seeing the woman's blue eyes, not an unnatural amethyst like her own, widen in shock at the refusal of her dying wish and the future that awaited her child instead. Perhaps if she had not been the cause of her own death by being such a hopeful goodie-goodie, then Tira may have honoured her request; perhaps she may have helped her - perhaps. Instead, she would lay her head on the woman's chest and hold her in a twisted mockery of the parent and child dynamic and stay in that position, no matter how long, until the woman parted with her last breath.

Alas, that is not what happened.

Instead the idiot had hold of the reigns that day, that moment, and had promised to honour the woman's wishes as death came to take her. The childish entity that had governed the assassin's body stroked the woman's hair and cooed softly to her that death was not so bad, in fact, she envied the Holy warrior's current position. The way the blonde had smiled at her then was not cruel nor mocking, with promises of betrayal…she did not think the woman capable of such malicious intent. However, the way in which the woman wished that she found happiness before it was too late, broke a barrier that had not been scarcely damaged let alone destroyed since…since…she wished she had never come near the dying woman now; a memory which she tried so hard to forget in mists of bloodshed resurfaced. As the blonde said these departing words, she smiled with her last breath, Tira went numb. Was this what it felt like to be in mourning? Others had described it to be like this. _**Ridiculous**_, her darker half had scorned. However, as Tira hoisted the unconscious child upon her back, taking care not to hurt the infant with her blade as she did so, the then raven haired girl was not so sure.

Tira shook her head as if to rid herself of such cobwebs. She was not a sentimental creature, for such implicated an aspect of the self; she was not allowed, nor did she deserve, such luxuries of the soul. An object, a tool, first for the guild that raised her, then

for the end of Soul Calibur and the victory of her Master, Soul Edge; these were the only things she should allow her mind to focus upon. She was not a person, she was thing, yes, like an animal, perhaps something less; to be used, abused, and then disposed of when no longer needed.

**Fact three**(for she needed to distract herself from the dull ache that now permeated her being)** :** Nightmare's betrayal. For in addition to being lumbered with the blonde infant, there came the barest whispers within her mind years later, coaxing her to come out of hiding and come to its bidding. She remembered awakening with a smile upon her face that day and, with little regard for the young child that she had left screaming in the throne room of Ostrheinsburg, left the safety of the castle as she followed the destruction that was the trail of breadcrumbs that sought to lead her to happiness. However, as she crept upon the apparent location of Nightmare's resurrection within the body of a new host, all was not as it seemed. He had welcomed her return to his side with a voice made smooth with overwhelming charm; Tira had immediately tilted her head to the side on confusion: this couldn't be her Master's vessel! He was too, well, civil. Nothing like the Nightmare of all those years past. Her confusion mounted as she took in her surroundings: a lit fire, furnishings that were not nearly close to becoming firewood material, the entire room felt reassuringly cosy; nothing like the dwellings of the sword's previous incarnation. Despite her suspicions, Tira persevered with this, albeit awkward, reunion. She had bowed before him, as she was accustomed to doing, for her Master would accept nothing less than complete subservience. However, instead of venting goals and orders, the sword's human vessel kneeled to her level to place an index finger under her chin and tip her visage upwards to meet his gaze; she could not, she was not worthy to do so, choosing to close her eyes tightly. She had trembled in her self-imposed darkness, fearing punishment for something, anything, that she had done wrong in his absence - not that she could recall any of these moments, but he was her Master, he reserved the right to beat her to oblivion if he solely chose to.

The blows never came.

The girl risked opening one eye, and peered slightly upwards at the visage that was smiling down upon her, shaking its head. "No, no, child. We cannot have things as they once were. This time, we try a new approach," she blushed at the tone he spoke in, mostly at the embarrassing notion that she had somehow misread him, perhaps he was going to punish her for that now? Was this the calm before the storm? However, this seemed not the case as her pale skin reddened further at the realisation of her Master's implications: her still youthful appearance, for he seemed to still be admiring it - smiling in amusement as he flicked a white pigtail, before inspecting the reddish purple hue her eyes had taken in the years since her initial malfestation, and pulling the skin of her cheek as if to check its resistance. That had hurt; her grimace seemed to please this Master as his grin became that of satisfaction. "Perfect. They will never suspect us," he had seemed to whisper not to her, but to himself. Nightmare, or Graf Dumas as he was now to be referred to as, laughed at the look of utter confusion that she tried to hide, but alas, failed completely in doing so.

It was then that he had motioned for her to take a seat as he explained the plans for victory. Tira listened intently, not wanting to anger her Master by asking him to repeat himself at a later date, however, there was a question she could not shake from her mind and it almost seemed to explode from her lips when she could hold it no longer: "Master…when do we go out killing?" The man's answer was less than inspiring. He had explained that part of this new approach was to let the humans fight amongst themselves, with Nightmare pulling the strings of said puppets from the shadows, and she playing the part of his lady at court. He seemed so proud at his plan, as her heart simultaneously sank. The scenario sounded too familiar, too close, too raw in her mind; it echoed her time within The Birds of Passage when she would play the role of conventional femininity before slaughtering the man that thought he owned her. They never suspected her: she was too slow, too naïve, too pretty. Pretty people never committed such vile acts that made the world ugly. She was a woman; women could not be violent, oh no! Some brutish man had to have killed the Duke! No female could have twisted his neck in such a way with no signs of remorse as blood painted the once green walls red. She did not mind it then, but now, she would not even get to murder those fools she had to play nice with!

"Coward." She could not help the words from being mumbled under her breath as Dumas, Nightmare incarnated, rambled on. He had paused and asked her to repeat herself. She did; thus sparking an argument that had all of Dumas' servants avoiding their Master's private chambers for over an hour. Dumas knew he could not harm the servant, for where would he find a young, attractive by human standards, yet severely malfested female who would be willing to serve him at this hour?

As his embittered servant made her leave, Dumas remarked that once she had stopped being _difficult_ then she could return to his side.

Tira scoffed at the memory of that event. Dumas having ordered his troops to be on high alert for her presence ever since, seemingly out of the wish to have her dead for her defection, or to drive her back to his side. Unluckily for him, the girl smirked, if she was anything, it was stubborn; unwilling to give him the satisfaction of her returning to him with her tail between her legs and begging forgiveness for her emotional outburst.

**Fact four**: With Nightmare's dealings with spinelessness in tow, that meant the girl, that…horrible, crying, _thing_, was now of value, and thus could not be killed out of the assassin's rage nor as a sacrifice to the sword. Instead, the child was now vital to the higher cause: as an appropriate vessel to Soul Edge, due to her innate malfestation and the ease of manipulation in the preparations towards that final goal. Children were so much easier to persuade into hurting others than an adult with their own morals; Tira would just have to shape the girl's moral compass to be more like her own: non-existent. It was with this knowledge that when Tira returned to Ostrheinsburg a few days later, and upon spotting the snivelling child that was the picture of innocence in _her_ room of all places, the assassin broke down out of frustration at the seeming impossibility regarding the task in hand. The child had not known when its keeper had returned home, let alone started crying, but the older girl sounded heartbroken as she wept, and with knowledge she somehow possessed, as if someone had told her how to handle such a situation before, the young girl hugged the older. Tira had not known why she was comforted by such an act, especially as it was carried out by the very creature that had grounded her to the castle's grounds, and found herself venting her frustrations towards Nightmare, the child, everything. Tira, if she were in her right mind, should have thrown the child away from her and kicked the little girl's face until it was broken, but a whisper stopped her normally volatile reactions, "I'll never leave you like the bad man did. Promise." Such words only made her behave like an overemotional teenager towards the new, but not improved in her mind, Nightmare further, not that Tira would ever admit such an event occurring. Nor would the assassin admit how accustomed she would grow to the child's company; anticipating yet fearing the day the child's malfestation had matured enough to wield the sword.

It all used to be so simple. Nightmare would make orders and she would follow them to the very last enunciated growl that came from behind that azure coloured helmet, and destroying anyone who stood in the way of her pleasing her Master. But no, oh no…fate could not let her be happy. It had to go and _mess_ things up; had to go and make her feel towards another _person_ again, someone who was not her flock of birds, nor a weapon, nor a physical incarnation of evil. How she longed for things to return to the way they were…

"…And that is why we are _stuck here_. Waiting for a bloody child to grow up so we can set things right! So we can be _us_ again!" Tira snapped to an invisible audience, not even remembering when she had started pacing up and down the throne room. Thus was the theory that Tira's darker side, in her boredom, had concocted: that Nightmare and Sophitia had done all they had to her on purpose as punishment for sin she was not aware of, for she was pretty sure she would remember committing an offence worthy of such retribution.

It was at this moment that a ten year old Pyrrha decided to poke her head in the room,

"Tira…uhm, fire is bad right?" Tira spun and glared at the child, thinking all this time the small girl was in the kitchen cooking-….

**Fact five**: Her conspirators _really_ knew how to piss her off.


	4. Frozen

I'm horrible at being consistent in regards to updates…Oh dear ;-;

Soundtrack: Frozen - Delain [_Lucidity_]

* * *

><p>She had done it yet again: enraged her guardian. It was a common occurrence nowadays for the older woman to be violently angry with her for the smallest of things than even attempt to be remotely pleasant. It was all her fault, somehow…it had to be. No one could be that aggressive towards another human being without a catalyst, right?<p>

"Right?"

Pyrrha's whisper thinly veiled the sob that sought release from the whirling mass of negative emotions entrapped within her petite body. She quickly clapped a hand to over her mouth, fearing that her fellow inhabitant would hear her, only to regret the action immediately as the pain that had dulled to an aching throb sparked like electricity within her jaw. She had _punched _her. Tira, whose fighting style presented itself like an elegant ballet being performed upon a stage to the highest paying of audiences, straight out left-hooked her in the jaw. The recalling of the incident not only quarter of an hour previously made the Greek girl want to whimper like a newborn puppy left abandoned in an alleyway; anything, anyone, help me, I'm hurting and it's just so cold…

However, the only being who could offer even a teasing glimpse of warmth and companionship to the shivering creature was the very one who had caused the damage. Pyrrha could only be thankful that Tira had not been wearing her armoured gauntlets (Pyrrha cursed those things! She knew her guardian could not afford to lose digits when performing her dance of acrobatics and steel, but still!) at the time and had restrained the force of her blow, having seemingly decided not to break her lower mandible completely. Perhaps letting the bone shatter would be the next punishment Tira would inflict upon her for returning the curt nods of the cursed guards that littered the grounds of Ostrheinsburg; heaven forbid she actually made polite conversation with those malfested grunts in order to calm the ache for social interaction - Tira would probably begin rupturing the healing orifice at regular intervals in order to disfigure her jaw entirely. No malfested creature, let alone male, would look at her again with a twinkle in their eyes or a kind word; the former would fear the wrath of Soul Edge's mistress, 'if she did that to someone she likes, imagine what she'd do to _us_?', and the latter would look upon her with pitying disdain for the deformed: 'such a shame, she would have been a looker without well, _that_.' The sheer pathetic nature of the presumed 'positive' outcome of Tira and Pyrrha's latest encounter did not escape the mind of the girl barely out of her teenage years, and only then did the tears fall silently. Melancholy struck the blonde with such force it was as if she had been physically assaulted yet again.

It all just made no sense; seemingly not to Tira, especially not to Pyrrha herself…

In the depths of her heart, Pyrrha could not help but foolishly convince herself that her guardian had some good intentions remaining within. All people had a quantity of purity within their soul, Pyrrha was convinced; and yet the Greek female had not grasped why the word naive and her being seemed to go hand in hand whenever Tira berated her. However, the woman had taken in a sickly, weak, snivelling (in Tira's own words) child with no apparent benefits to herself; such was the mantra that the blonde recited to herself in times of distress to silence the whispers in the back of her mind that would tell her to run away and save herself before it was too late.

It would be several years yet before she regretted not heeding to the not-so-subtle demands of her survival instinct; a natural part of the human psyche that Tira had somehow managed to override with gentle caresses and kind words that were applied sparingly in order to achieve the desired effect from the key component to her plans.

It was, essentially, the foundation to their rocky relationship: her Mother-figure was capable of human contact but only when she initiated it; thus Pyrrha began to take note of which actions would result in a laugh that resonated kindness and warmth, or something akin to it, and especially those which resulted in the snowy haired being showering her with Motherly kisses and Tira holding her, be it only for a brief moment. Pyrrha would use every opportunity she had to recreate the situations that garnered her affection from her would-be guardian. However, she too was not blind to how the conditions of her childhood changed from receiving a rough shake upon the top of her head that messed up her hair and a joyous giggle at the child's expense at being able to hold a short sword and shield properly, to only a clawed hand on her shoulder and a smirk resonating pride at the grisly destruction of an unfortunate traveller's life.

It had all just become to hard to make the woman appear to have a semblance of happiness in her life. It was a thought that, unintentionally, struck Pyrrha yet again where it hurt most and she almost wished her Mama Bird would just out-right punch her again for all it would matter. She wasn't enough to make Tira a happy and content human being…she would leave her for someone who could. Pyrrha could not allow that to happen! Only Tira seemed to have the ability not to be harmed around her, and Pyrrha longed to keep that connection, despite how destructive to her being it actually was.

Pyrrha sighed, somewhat relieved that the pain in her jaw was beginning to subside even if just a little; she would have to push her luck and ask Tira to have a look at it later to definitely make sure it would heal without a mark or any future problems. The blonde could only hope her guardian's happier side was in charge when she approached, for one, it was usually the chirpier persona that was the giver of attention and affection; the other being that inhabited Tira's body and mind she did not want the attention of, and its idea of affection would most likely end up with stitches being administered.

It always shocked Pyrrha, which was strange because she should be over it by now, that such an ugly being could exist within the eerily beautiful woman as her guardian was. Years ago, when she was just a child, Pyrrha was able to recall that Tira's beauty was of a more natural sort, with her presumed original hair colour being that which resembled the wings of the creatures she adored, easily, more than the child in her care; she also had a hint of colour to her skin tone, not much in that she was still fairer skinned than most women that inhabited the perimeter of Ostrheinsburg, but at least she did not resemble a dishevelled spectre haunting the hallways of the main castle. Pyrrha tried, in vain, to forget the time she had mistaken the woman for a ghost lurking within the shadowy recesses of the building, with her long white hair mussed up from little sleep, and a dress shirt that matched her hair in colour which appeared to have been tailored for man that would have dwarfed her guardian in height and stature; long story short, Pyrrha had screamed in horror at the idea of encountering a spirit and Tira had slapped her as a reply, and then scolded the child for possibly waking her beloved watchers.

When interactions such as the one recalled were dissected, Pyrrha was pretty sure that military training had nothing on living with Tira. Considering the ex-soldiers turned malfested that patrolled the grounds feared the petite woman possibly more than Pyrrha did, the blonde was sure her theory had a good foundation.

All in all, it was safe to say, in her mind at least, that as the darker side began to dominate her guardian's thoughts and actions more frequently, then the more witchlike the older female's appearance became. Pyrrha absentmindedly had begun twirling a lock of hair that strayed near her face around her finger, a sort of calming action for her nerves. For as much as her guardian's appearance changed, the woman was determined that Pyrrha's would not. For one, she was not permitted to wear make-up, or even allowed to experiment with the abundance of it that the malfested woman possessed for her own use, for the latter appeared to love the brightly coloured cosmetics and the designs she wove with them to create her intimidating appearing foliage. Pyrrha had pouted at this fact, possessing the normal teenage girl want to play with make-up and her hair. Ah, her hair. She was not allowed to dye that either; considering the bizarre colours she had seen her guardian paint her own locks, Pyrrha found this rule very hypocritical. It was as if the older female was trying to preserve something about her, for Tira was hell-bent on Pyrrha having her appearance as natural and pure as possible.

Tira will probably never tell her why such was the case. Sometimes the woman just seemed to stare at her as if she had seen a ghost, which was amusing given the colouring of Tira, before the pigtailed female would shake her head and walk away muttering to herself in incoherent sentences and snippets of words that only she herself could decipher.

Lost in the whirlpool of thoughts and memories that had struck, Pyrrha missed the slight creak as the heavy door swung open as much as it would take for a small person to get through, and if the teenage girl heard it, she gave no sign that she had.

A sudden urge to flinch struck and her body followed suit in this want. The blonde's eyes widened in shock at the sudden cold, but relief flooded her when she realised whose arm was by her side, and whose hand was clutching the wet cloth to her wounded jaw. She felt the bed dip with the new weight first, then the woman's body position itself behind her in a loose embrace with the free limb as the other continued to hold the source of cold to her sore face.

"Tira, I-"

She was cut off with a soft peck to her lower jaw before the cloth was replaced, and despite the pain that the gesture created, Pyrrha could not help but let herself sink into the embrace of her guardian. It was these moments that she would crave from Tira, and she knew that she would bear the pain that the woman was capable of dealing out to her body and mind if only to be sated with her affections a moment later. Their relationship was not conventional in the slightest, granted, but to Pyrrha, it was the closest thing to normality; and the guardian who was always in two minds about all things was the nearest semblance to family that she could remember.

So when the woman's hands, still thankfully clawless, started wandering, Pyrrha was in no position to argue or resist these gestures of apparent affection. Despite being confused at first, Pyrrha knew that Tira was currently not in the right mind to cause her harm, and she relinquished her worries of the unknown and basked in the attention of her protector. Such interactions would be added to the stock of memorised actions and responses within the blonde's mind for later use, and despite her initial fear, Pyrrha would come to relish the products of her pain once her guardian had cooled down.

It was for moments such as these that Pyrrha strove, for only one would remain at her side no matter how many died in her presence or the quantity of lives she ruined, and she yearned for the fruits of her misfortune that the pale woman was only too eager to tend to upon their return to the cursed ruins that only a few had the right to call home.


End file.
